Merry, you may be.
for i am the flesh in your tounge.
create to yourself, images of these
glass-eyed figures,
and expose to me, your skin -
whorish as ever.
they speak to me, your pores, your veins,
in a rush of melancholy.
in a stream of misantrophy.
Remove the carpet, so i may be
united with the shades of these.
Blind my eyes,
still i will see - presence, visuality.
i grant you my pale hands,
still i will feel - shape, contoures.
Please leave.
in me you wont find any pity,
as the dog that howls for the light in my eyes -
the stench or your nakedness, no smell for a mourner like me.
so, please leave.
in here you wonĽt find any pity.
tour kisses were as hell itself.
Be silent, for i am the flesh in your tounge.
only i can wear vast costumes of time, and still be present.
"so, hereby i rape thee."